FEAR AND FALLING IN LOVE WITH HAROLD RAMIS (AGAIN)
My wife had been diagnosed with an ovarian condition that would make pregnancy difficult. She had relied on her gynecologist to give us direction on the best route to adding to our family. I had expected understanding and guidance. We received anything but.
The doctor looked at us and said we would most likely either never conceive or have to pursue fertility treatments which could yield results or not.
Fear. This doctor spoke fear.
We traveled home with a horrid sense of dread about us, I swear it was so much a presence I think we bought a third ticket aboard the South Shore train on the way back.
Sure, we had discussed children before we got married and we agreed and promised wholeheartedly that if biological children were not a possibility, we would adopt. And we still stood by that but somehow, the cold reality of our promise then was not only shocking but painful. Not only could I feel my pain but I could also sense my wife's.
I could only imagine at the level of incompleteness that she must have been feeling. I could only dream of, in my nightmares, the nagging cruel sensation of half-existence that claws at a woman who places motherhood on her checklist only to be told she may have to take it off.
She wanted to be a mom, it was in her heart and soul but she feared it was not in her body.
On the train ride back home fear sat with us and it took the window seat.
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The research began. The investigating ramped up and most of all, the praying became a thing, not of practice or behavior, but of necessity. I had no medical degree. My understanding of my wife's "parts" was more about enjoyment and was now having to move into the analytical.
But we prayed on and on. And God help me, the fear tried to stay neck and neck with the faith.
During the research of the hormonal issues, we found that there were two specialists in the country that were experts in the field.
One was in Los Angeles; immediately I began simulating the trip in my mind.
The second was at the University of Chicago.
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We went back to my wife's doctor and told her of the specialist.
I had hoped for a reaction that would ignite hope in us. I had hoped this doctor would be a flint to a fire of joy.
Yet, she was not. Her demeanor shifted to a near indignant position.
"You can do that," she began, "I know some women who have done that, gone there for the group trials. But I just want you to know that they have come away disappointed."
My wife was hurt once again. I asked the doctor if we could speak in private.
As she left, something swelled in me that was the offspring of anger, exhaustion and enlightenment. I said that all this doctor could speak was fear. All she could create was a dark cloud over us and that I would be damned if our future child's existence would be weighed in this doctor's hands. I said we would never see her again.
Some of my over-dramatic speech Lizeth liked.
Some of it she didn't.
So, the train ride home was the two of us, a much smaller sense of fear and a large amount of "I may be a jackass because of that speech." But I felt much better, much more hopeful in buying a seat for jackassness rather than for fear.
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Eventually we were able to meet with the specialist. From the moment we arrived, we were treated with the tenderness and care that, in my opinion, such a meeting is warranted. The doctor's assistant was friendly, attentive and most off all, understandable and empathetic to Lizeth. The entire staff was aware that we were there in an emotional situation and every action they took reminded us that they not only knew but cared.
After vitals and a brief discussion, Lizeth and I sat in a examination room. Her heart was pounding, her emotions high and I could feel it all. Partly because I loved her and partly because my heart and emotions were doing the same.
The specialist knocked and entered and from the very first moment, it felt like we were in the best of hands. He was a perfect blend of professional but personable, serious but kind, scientific but hopeful. And as he listened to Lizeth recount her trials and tribulations of ovarian strife, he wrote in a notebook like a first-year college student. And as he listened and wrote, once she began to cry, he handed her tissue without missing a beat. She apologized for being emotional and he told her there was no need to say sorry. And back to note-taking he went and back to talking she returned.
And while their newly formed relationship continued on, I felt a little less fear and a little less fear and a little less and less and so on. I also could not help but notice that the specialist looked exactly like Harold Ramis - Egon from The Ghostbusters film in the 80s.
As the examination ended, the specialist rose up and instructed us of the process going forward, the treatments that were ahead of us and, most importantly, the success that he felt we would experience. As we shook hands, I told him that he reminded me of a Ghostbuster. He laughed and said it was probably when Harold Ramis was old and overweight. I said no, it was when he was Egon and that Egon was cool.
I enjoyed the Ghostbusters as a kid and I still do. Now, I was falling in love with Harold Ramis again.